The corridor echoed with the steady rhythm of boots against stone, the sound bouncing off the high ceilings of the massive structure Grimbli had carved from the very bones of the earth. Zeroth, flanked by his companions, followed Vulcanix through the labyrinthine passages of the coliseum. His battle axe hung loosely at his side, and though his posture was casual, his sharp gaze darted around, noting the fine craftsmanship of every pillar, every groove in the obsidian walls, and every intricate carving that adorned the ceilings.
Behind him, his companions—Tingle, Ardric, Varic, and Pyronox—walked in various states of awe. Ardric’s eyes lingered on the columns, which seemed to shimmer faintly with embedded runes. Varic traced his fingers along the stonework, murmuring in half-whispered amazement about the artistry of the engravings. Even Pyronox, usually so composed, seemed distracted by the faint, flickering flames that danced across the walls as if alive.
“This place is... something else,” Ardric muttered, his voice reverent as he glanced up at the vaulted ceiling, where carved depictions of past champions locked in battle loomed overhead. “It’s as if the stone itself remembers.”
Zeroth rolled his eyes. “Of course, it’s something else. You’re walking through the sweat and blood of a dwarf’s genius.” He glanced sideways at Pyronox, who gave him a knowing look but remained silent.
Tingle, however, broke the quiet with his usual enthusiasm, waving his arms wildly as he spoke. “Tingle thinks this is the best stonework Tingle has ever seen! Such craftsmanship! Such artistry! Tingle wants to know who did this—Tingle must find this stonemason and shake their hand!”
The corner of Zeroth’s mouth twitched into a smirk. If only you knew, Tingle, he thought, his fingers brushing the small stone in his waistband where Grimbli’s essence resided. The dwarf-turned-spirit had remained silent so far, but Zeroth could almost feel his quiet pride radiating through the stone.
Ahead of them, Vulcanix strode with purpose, his towering form exuding heat and authority. If he noticed the awe of the others—or cared—he gave no indication. “Keep moving,” he growled, his molten eyes fixed forward. “We haven’t got all day to marvel at old stones.”
As they rounded the final corner, they were met with an intricately carved stone door, its surface inlaid with patterns that seemed to pulse faintly with an inner glow. Vulcanix pushed it open with little effort, the heavy slab of stone gliding soundlessly on its hinges.
Inside was a single, massive room, clearly meant for rest but far from spartan. Several cots lined the walls, each draped with fine linens that shimmered faintly in the dim light. A long, low table sat in the center of the room, its surface polished to a mirror finish, surrounded by sturdy wooden chairs. The walls were adorned with carvings and tapestries depicting battles both ancient and recent.
“Well,” Vulcanix said, his voice dripping with impatience. “This will be your base until the Godswar begins. I suggest you rest... if you can.” He turned to leave, but not before adding, “Try not to kill each other before the real fun starts.”
The door closed behind him with a dull thud, leaving the group alone. For a moment, they stood in awkward silence, taking in their surroundings. The room was large—almost luxurious—but the realization that they’d all be sharing it hung heavy in the air.
“So... all of us in one room, huh?” Varic broke the silence, his tone dry as he claimed one of the cots near the wall and dropped his belongings unceremoniously onto it. “This will be... cozy.”
Ardric let out a low chuckle. “Aye, cozy’s one word for it. Guess we’ll find out who snores.”
“Tingle does not snore!” Tingle exclaimed, his indignation cutting through the tension. He climbed onto a cot near the center of the room, his small frame practically disappearing beneath the thick blanket. “Tingle is the quietest sleeper you will ever meet.”
Zeroth let out a low grunt, throwing his pack onto a cot near the back of the room. “This’ll be fine. We’ve shared worse spaces before.”
Pyronox, who had remained silent throughout, moved to the far corner of the room and sat cross-legged on the floor, his fiery form dimming slightly as he rested his arms on his knees. “I require no cot,” he said simply.
Zeroth sighed as he sat down on his cot, running a hand through his fiery red hair. “Alright, settle in, everyone. We’ve got... what, eighteen hours left before the madness starts? Might as well get comfortable.”
Ardric raised an eyebrow at Zeroth. “Comfortable, huh? In this death trap?”
“It’s not the room that’ll kill us,” Zeroth muttered, his voice laced with grim humor. “It’s what comes after.”
As the room gradually quieted, the hum of faint magical energy in the walls became the only sound. Zeroth found his gaze wandering again to the carvings above, and for a moment, his thoughts strayed to Grimbli. He could almost hear the old dwarf muttering complaints about the coliseum—how he’d regretted every ounce of work that went into building this blood-soaked monument.
“Damn you, Grimbli,” Zeroth muttered under his breath, smirking faintly. “You had to go and make it this beautiful.”
Eventually, one by one, the group drifted into an uneasy rest, save for Pyronox, whose watchful eyes burned softly in the dimly lit room. Despite the relative calm, Zeroth couldn’t shake the feeling that the coming hours would bring nothing but chaos. He closed his eyes, willing himself to sleep, knowing full well it might be the last peaceful night they’d get for a long time.
Zeroth’s dreams were rudely shattered by the sound of multiple loud pops followed by a surge of radiant energy that flooded the room like a rising sun. With a startled grunt, he shot upright in bed, his beard and hair spontaneously igniting in fiery bursts.
“What in the bloody hell?!” Zeroth bellowed, slapping at the flames with his hands, though they didn’t seem to burn him. Around him, the rest of his companions were similarly startled awake.
Tingle screamed, “Tingle is under attack!” and fell off his cot, rolling under a table with an impressive display of survival instincts.
Ardric had grabbed his longsword, instinctively lifting it defensively, only to realize he wasn’t even holding the blade but a pillow. He blinked down at it in confusion before throwing it aside. “What’s going on?!”
Varic’s half-elven reflexes kicked in as he sprang from his cot and immediately hit the wall behind him with a loud thud. “Ow! Who—?”
Standing tall and radiant in the center of the room were their deities. Luminara, glowing softly with golden light, her serene smile humored but restrained. Eldrinacht, his swirling eyes gleaming with mirth, leaned casually against a conjured staff, chuckling. Vulcanix, however, looked utterly irritated, his molten eyes glaring down at the group, arms crossed, as if dragged there against his will. Pyronox, standing in the corner, glanced awkwardly at his creator before staring at Zeroth with something resembling pity.
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“Oh, by the heavens above!” Zeroth finally managed to exclaim, his beard flickering out. “Would you not just appear like that?! Nearly gave me a heart attack!”
Tingle cautiously peeked out from under the table. “Tingle demands to know why gods have invaded Tingle’s personal bubble of comfort!”
Eldrinacht chuckled, his swirling tattoos faintly glowing. “Consider this a wake-up call, mortals. You’ve slept long enough.”
Luminara stepped forward, her calm, golden aura soothing the room. “Eleven hours of rest should suffice for mortals preparing for what lies ahead. Only seven hours remain until the Godswar officially begins.”
“Seven hours?!” Ardric exclaimed, the pillow still clutched in one hand. “I thought we’d have more time!”
“You’d think that,” Eldrinacht said with a smirk, “but here we are. Time waits for no one—not even gods.”
Vulcanix groaned loudly. “This is a waste of time,” he muttered, casting his molten glare over the group. “They’re barely functional when they’re awake, and you’re interrupting my own preparations to—”
“Enough,” Luminara said, her tone sharp but kind, cutting off the fire god. “We are here to ensure our champions are prepared and aware of what remains.”
With a graceful wave of her hand, the room shimmered, and before anyone could process what was happening, they were teleported to a vast chamber elsewhere in the coliseum. Zeroth stumbled slightly as the ground reoriented beneath him, catching his balance just as his eyes widened at the sight.
The chamber was a grand dining hall with expansive, arched window frames that opened to the surreal, swirling skies of the gods’ realm. The hues of purples, blues, and golds danced across the open space, casting shimmering light into the room. At the long table in the center sat Mira, Sylvana, Drex, and Kael, already eating and deep in discussion. Behind each chair stood meticulously arranged armor stands, each bearing the armor and weapons of their respective owners.
Zeroth’s gaze lingered on the detail. The positioning, the precision—it all spoke of intent and readiness. The sight sent a shiver of realization through him. This was it. There was no more time for distractions.
His attention shifted to the far side of the room, where Thalamar stood with a group of fifteen archmages. The mages were channeling magic into Tingle’s equipment, the room humming faintly with the sheer energy in the air.
“Well, this is… dramatic,” Zeroth muttered, glancing around the chamber before giving Vulcanix a sidelong look. “You gods sure know how to set a mood.”
Vulcanix didn’t respond, instead striding to a smaller table near the corner, apparently reserved for him alone. His molten figure sat heavily, arms crossed, his irritation still evident.
Luminara gestured for Zeroth and his group to join the table. “Eat, prepare yourselves, and share what you must. The final hours before war are precious. Use them wisely.”
As Zeroth made his way to the table, he felt the weight of every step. Seven hours. Seven hours until everything changed. He sat between Tingle and Ardric, who both had to shuffle to make room for him in his larger-than-life dwarven god form. Varic smirked at their awkward adjustment from across the table.
“Looks like someone’s taking up a little more space than usual,” Varic teased, earning a flat look from Zeroth.
“Shut it, elf,” Zeroth grumbled, though there was a faint smirk tugging at his lips. He was beginning to grow accustomed to this form.
As they began to settle in, the hum of magic from the archmages continued to echo, the tension of the moment slowly sinking in. This was the calm before the storm, and everyone knew it.
As the tension in the room began to settle into a strange sort of normalcy, Zeroth leaned forward at the table, resting his chin on his hand. His dwarven eyes scanned the faces of his alliance, trying to gauge their readiness—not just in battle, but in the mental resolve needed for what was to come. He cleared his throat, drawing everyone's attention.
“Alright, listen up,” he began, his gruff voice cutting through the hum of magic still emanating from Thalamar’s group. “We’ve got a lot to cover, and time isn’t exactly on our side.”
Tingle leaned in with an exaggerated look of concentration. “Tingle is ready. What needs covering, boss dwarf?”
Ignoring the nickname, Zeroth continued, “First off, we know who Ralgar is—or at least, what he represents. Morvash didn’t pick him because he was the best or the brightest. No, he’s a replacement.” His voice dropped slightly. “The original champions were the Three Heads of the Sanctum.”
A ripple of recognition crossed Mira’s face, and Sylvana frowned, her fingers idly tracing the grain of the table. Drex tilted his head. “Those were the mutated kobolds, weren’t they? The ones from that… sanctum you lot tore through?”
“Yeah,” Zeroth confirmed, his tone dark. “The very same. Ralgar’s not just carrying Morvash’s banner—he’s carrying a grudge. He knows who we are and what we’ve done. If he wasn’t motivated before, he sure as hell is now.”
Pyronox, standing near Zeroth’s side, growled lowly. “Let him come. I’ll tear him apart like he’s nothing more than kindling.”
Zeroth shot him a sharp look. “Easy there, Pyronox. This isn’t just about brute strength. Ralgar and his lot aren’t going to play fair. They’ll be cunning, ruthless. And we can’t afford to lose our heads.”
Varic nodded thoughtfully, leaning back in his chair. “And what about the truce with Aunrae’s group? You trust her, Zeroth?”
The dwarf sighed, scratching his beard. “Trust is a strong word. Let’s just say I think she’s less likely to stab us in the back… for now. Her goal’s clear—she wants the gods severed from the mortal plane. That puts her at odds with everyone, but it doesn’t mean she won’t take advantage of us if the opportunity arises. It’s a temporary alliance, nothing more.”
Mira, who had been quiet up until now, spoke up. “And what about her goddess, Terraana? You think she’ll interfere if we end up clashing with Aunrae’s group?”
“Doubt it,” Zeroth replied. “Aunrae made it clear she’s fighting for the mortals. If her group comes at us, it won’t be because Terraana ordered it—it’ll be because they think we’re in their way. Simple as that.”
The group murmured their agreement, each member processing the situation in their own way. After a moment, Zeroth leaned back in his chair, exhaling heavily. “Alright. Enough talk for now. Let’s focus on staying sharp.”
As Zeroth let his eyes wander around the room, his gaze fell on the armor stand behind his chair. His own battle-worn armor was displayed meticulously, as if it were a trophy. But what caught his attention was the massive wooden shield propped against the stand.
The thing was enormous—easily three inches thick, with a rough, bark-covered surface that looked as if it had been ripped straight from the trunk of a mighty tree. The edges were jagged and uneven, as though it had been torn from the wood in a fit of rage. Deep veins of lighter wood ran across its surface like rivers of life, pulsing faintly with an almost magical glow.
“Now what in the…?” Zeroth muttered as he stood, walking over to the shield. He reached out to touch it, his fingers brushing the coarse bark. The shield hummed softly in response, a pulse of warmth traveling up his arm.
“Oh!” Sylvana exclaimed, clapping her hands together. “I was hoping you’d notice that!”
Zeroth turned, raising an eyebrow. “You behind this?”
“Well, Sylvie and I, to be fair,” Tingle chimed in, hopping off his chair and scampering over. He puffed his chest out proudly. “We thought you could use some… extra defense. Tingle’s magic isn’t as flashy as his offense, but with Sylvie’s druidic magic, we combined forces to craft you something truly unique.”
Sylvana smiled, her cheeks flushing slightly as she added, “It’s more than just a shield, Zeroth. It works like Tingle’s Mana Binders, but for defense. It absorbs magical energy, stores it, and then releases it when you need it most. It’s… well, it’s one-of-a-kind.”
Zeroth stared at the shield, his hand still resting on its surface. He could feel the raw potential humming within it, a strange combination of nature’s strength and arcane precision. “You two really outdid yourselves,” he said finally, his voice softer than usual. “This is… impressive.”
Tingle grinned ear to ear, clearly soaking in the praise. “Tingle is a genius, after all. And Sylvie is very, very clever.”
Sylvana blushed even more at the nickname, muttering, “It’s Sylvana…”
Zeroth chuckled, shaking his head as he hefted the shield with one arm. It was heavy, but not unmanageable—sturdy and dependable, just the way he liked it. “Alright,” he said, turning back to the group with a grin. “Let’s hope it doesn't explode.”
The room filled with laughter and a renewed sense of camaraderie as they returned to their preparations, the looming Godswar now just hours away.